The sky over Konoha was heavy.
Not just gray, but the kind of gray that swallowed the sun completely, smothering the world beneath a blanket of dim, muted light. The air smelled of wet earth and incense smoke, a scent both sacred and sorrowful. Thin streams of wind carried faint echoes of weeping, quiet and restrained.
It was the day a god was being buried.
Senju Hashirama—the man who had turned warring clans into a single village, who could summon forests with a gesture, who smiled like the sun even in the darkest of times—lay still now. His body rested in a coffin of pale cedar, smooth and unadorned. No jewels, no gold, no pomp. Hashirama himself had asked for simplicity in death.
But the silence around his resting place was anything but simple.
Shinobi from every clan gathered in the courtyard of the Senju compound. Some stood with heads bowed in genuine grief. Others wore masks of politeness, hiding thoughts of the political turmoil to come. The Uchiha elders watched from the edges like hawks, their eyes sharp even through mourning. The Hyūga, always composed, whispered soft prayers under their breath. Civilian representatives of the Fire Daimyō lingered stiffly, awkward in their formal robes, already calculating what this loss would mean for their own power.
And at the center of it all stood Tobirama Senju.
His face was carved from stone. No tears. No cracks. Only the faintest tightening around the eyes betrayed the storm within. Tobirama was a man who could endure the weight of the world without bending, but even he felt the absence of his brother like an empty wound. Hashirama had been the heart of this village. Tobirama was its spine. And now the heart was gone, leaving only cold pragmatism to keep the body moving.
The funeral rites were solemn. Hiruzen, still a young man then, recited a prayer. Mito Uzumaki stood silent behind the coffin, her hands folded tightly, her red hair like a splash of blood against the pale wood. Villagers knelt and whispered their final respects.
But among the hundreds gathered there was one man who did not kneel.
He stood slightly apart, beneath the shade of a broad-leafed tree. His robes were simple, unremarkable. His dark hair was tied loosely, falling just enough to shadow his face. His expression was calm—not the calm of someone at peace, but the stillness of someone observing the world with quiet detachment.
He did not move with the rhythm of the crowd.
He did not bow his head.
His gaze lingered on the coffin for a moment, not in reverence, but as though he were studying an interesting but unremarkable piece of history.
Soromon Kenja.
A name no one here knew.
To the clan's sparse records, he was listed as a distant relative, a Senju whose branch family had vanished during the old wars. No one questioned his sudden appearance—after all, grief pulled family out of hiding. It made sense. It was natural. And yet…
Tobirama noticed him.
It wasn't chakra—Soromon gave off nothing. No intent. No killing aura. No presence to measure. And yet, Tobirama felt him. Like a silent needle prick in the fabric of the world. An awareness that was too still. Too controlled.
The rites ended slowly. One by one, mourners stepped forward to place a final flower at the coffin's edge. When it was over, the crowd dispersed in muted waves, returning to their homes with low voices and heavy hearts. The courtyard emptied.
Except for Tobirama. And him.
---
When the last person left, Tobirama approached. His white robes brushed softly over the polished wood floor, his sharp eyes never leaving the figure beneath the tree.
"You didn't kneel," Tobirama said quietly.
Soromon lifted his gaze, meeting Tobirama's without hesitation. His eyes were calm—deep, dark, but not cold. Simply unreadable.
"Why would I?" Soromon's voice was even, carrying no disrespect but also no deference. "Death does not change what he was. Nor what comes after."
Tobirama studied him. Few dared speak so bluntly about his brother. "You speak as if you knew him."
"I didn't," Soromon said simply. "But I understand the type of man he was."
"And what type is that?"
Soromon glanced briefly at the coffin. "A man who wanted to build something greater than himself. And in doing so, he forgot what would come after him."
That made Tobirama's jaw tighten. "Careful. I won't tolerate strangers speaking of him lightly."
Soromon tilted his head slightly, as if amused. "Lightly? No. I speak plainly. Hashirama Senju was… rare. But even rare things die. What matters now is what you do with what remains."
A faint, almost invisible silence stretched between them. The wind stirred the funeral incense still burning near the coffin, carrying its sharp, bitter-sweet scent.
Tobirama narrowed his eyes. "You're not just a wandering clan cousin, are you?"
Soromon smiled faintly. "I am exactly what you see." He stepped away from the tree, moving past Tobirama with unhurried grace. "But I can be more. If you let me."
Tobirama turned to watch him leave. "And why would I let you?"
Soromon paused at the courtyard's edge, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Because you know as well as I do," he said softly, "that this village cannot survive as it is. Hashirama's dream will collapse without change. And you… you are too practical to cling to a dead man's ideals."
And then he was gone, slipping into the shadows of the compound without sound.
Tobirama stood there for a long moment, his mind racing.
He did not believe in fate. He believed in action, in calculated moves, in cold logic. But there was something in that man's presence—a weight, a certainty—that felt beyond calculation.
---
Later, deep in the Senju gardens, Soromon walked among the trees.
The soil here was rich but restless. Centuries of war had left the land tired. Beneath its surface, chakra veins pulsed weakly, tangled and uneven. To most shinobi, it was just dirt. To him, it was a living network—fragile, stagnant, ripe for reshaping.
He knelt, pressing his hand lightly into the earth. A faint hum of paradoxal energy rippled outward, invisible to anyone who might be watching.
This world was young. Fragile. Still bound by feudal chains, still haunted by the whispers of old predators who called themselves gods. Ōtsutsuki, Sage, whatever names they wore—old things clinging to relevance.
It didn't matter.
They were fossils. Better left forgotten.
This world does not need gods. It needs growth.
He closed his eyes. The hum deepened, a whisper threading silently into the land.
A seed had been planted.
And so began the first experiment.